Guilty
by InTheVast
Summary: Harry and Hermione made him swear not to join the war, and now he hates his promise, hates his Gryffindor loyalty. He’s here because he wants to shed that layer by doing something horrible.


Title: Guilty

Part: 1/1

Pairing: Ron/Draco

Rating: R-NC-17 (big character death, lots of violent sex, blood, and f words)

Author: Emileigh )

Fandom: HP

Disclaimer: No ownership whatsoever… just some basic kid-napping.

Author's Notes: This fic is seriously fucked up. I wrote it for **redblaze** for the Ronficathon. And while I managed to get a wet!Weasley into it, and absolutely no fluff, and absolutely none of that fade to black nonsense (although she may wish for it). I also managed to make it a really difficult fic to read, There is Main Character DEATH here people! I blame my 103-degree fever. Someone shoot my muse. I really need to write R/D more often. They are my OTP, and I get to sad when I get pulled away from tormenting them to work on another project…

"Weasley, how weak. You've resorted to following me now?" His voice wraps around Ron's throat like the tendrils of smoke from his cigarette.  
Why is he doing this? Is he a step closer to becoming the hero? Or the fool? The boy he's supposed to hate cannot give him this answer. And maybe that's why he's here in the first place. He needs the vindication, the fucking penance. Harry and Hermione made him swear not to join the war, and now he hates his promise, hates his Gryffindor loyalty. He's here because he wants to shed that layer by doing something horrible.  
Malfoy seems to catch the thought and sends him a nicotine laced smile. "Oh Weasley. What is it this time? Do you want to punch me in the face? Or are we going to fuck? Or are you going to punch me, and then we fuck?"  
A rush of heat jars him forward, and his hands are grabbing at Draco's robes, lifting him up against the wall. His skin feels so hot, despite the wet blanket of rain surrounding their corner of shadow. The courtyard is dark, empty. And he wants to murder Malfoy for making him lose his soul, for making him forget who he is, and who he's supposed to be.  
"What are you doing? Do you want me to kill you?" And right now there's no doubt in his mind that he could do it. That Malfoy's precious bones would feel so good, breaking in his hands. As if to prove this point, he grabs Malfoy's wrist and wrenches it backwards.  
"God, stop." Malfoy pants.  
"Shut the fuck up." He says and softens the grip a little. "I want information Malfoy. Do you need me to spell it out? You're too pathetic to beat up, and you're shite in bed." Neither of them needs to dignify those two declarations as lies.  
Ron knows that Draco knows that he likes to beat him up, just because he IS pathetic, and as for the shite in bed part, Draco doesn't even get the chance to be shitty, Ron likes to test his gag reflex for a few minutes and then fuck him to the point of incoherency. He doesn't want to listen to the bastard talk.  
"Oh and what information would the little Weasel like?" Draco coughs because it's raining and his head is spinning.  
"When are the Slytherins leaving?" Ron asks, voice humid.  
"I don't know," Malfoy gasps as his head is banged into brick. He feels as if he may throwup. But no that isn't dignified, that isn't Malfoy like. He is clutching the cigarette so hard that it is burning his fingers. And then the idea of defense hits him, and he pushes his hand up and presses the burning end against the exposed V of his neck. There's a muffled "Fuck!" and then Draco is running through the rain, and all he can hear is the amplified, wet thuds of Ron pursuing him, his heart pounding, and then his own cry of terror when Ron catches him and shoves him down into the stone walkway.  
He knees him in the ribs, and Draco coughs blood this time.  
"Fuck." He exhales, as Draco tries to crawl away. With a detatched eye Ron notes how small he looks.  
"Why are you making this so difficult? Just tell me what you know!" Ron doesn't want to feel pity now. He hates Malfoy with more then just all his heart, he hates him with the blood that sustains it. He hates him enough to want to love him to death.  
"I don't know anything! God please! Leave me alone!" Draco moans, shoulders shaking like he may be crying, or very cold.  
Lies like that make Ron so angry.  
"Come here." He grabs Draco's arm, feels it almost jerk out of its socket. He gathers up the blonde boy, the fucking traitor, and pulls him down the stone walkway, underneath the trees, the gold and red leaves falling around them. Ron forces him into Hogwarts. Malfoy clings to him, fingers tightly gripping Ron's robes, head bowed onto Ron's shoulder. They look the part of lovers, save for the part of the soft sobs coming from Draco's throat, and the fact that Ron suspects he is only clinging to his robes to keep from passing out.  
He takes him to the Gryffindor dorms because there's no one there. There hasn't been for months. Ron is the last Gryffindor in Hogwarts, so he isn't ashamed at all to drag Malfoy to his bedroom like some fucking whore. The fat lady portrait looks horrified at Draco's state, and Ron glares at her in warning.  
Up the stairs Draco stumbles, and Ron punishes by backhanding him across the face. He doesn't feel guilty, or maybe it's more that he's too far-gone to feel such an emotion. He doesn't need to tell himself that Hermione or Harry could end up dead because of this worthless slut. That if he lets him go, Malfoy and his fellow fucking death eaters could end up killing what was left of his ruined family.  
He does not feel guilt for Draco. He wants to kill him.  
When they finally get to his room, Ron shoves Draco onto Harry's bed. He furiously pulls his robes off, shakes the beads of water out of his hair. Malfoy looks up at him through disoriented eyes, as if not quite understanding the motions.  
The sound of his robes hitting the floor is wet. He climbs onto Harry's bed as he had so many times before, only this time it isn't Harry waiting for him, there is no Harry to laugh and smother with kisses as they make love. After trapping the lower half of Malfoy's body under his full weight, Ron spreads Draco thighs apart, ignoring the pain-tainted groan of protest. He pulls Draco's sopping robes above his knees, then rips it off his shoulders.  
"I'm going to fuck you." He says pulling him close and growling into his ear. He lacks the needed conviction to follow through though. Draco looks up at him, and wets his lips and that's all he needs.  
"I don't think you know what you're doing," Ron says, grabbing him by the fragile wrist. "Or who you're dealing with. If you did, you wouldn't be daft enough to tempt me like this."  
He studies the blonde boy. His cheeks are ruddy and that makes the pale skin look over rouged. Whore. He sees the big bite mark at the crease of Malfoy's ass and his left thigh, with a tender purple bruise sucked in the midst of it. Bruised fingerprints on the pale skin over his hipbones, the fleshy part of his ass, and his fragile shoulder blades. Ron's fingerprints prove his utter ownership over this body. There will be no guilt, but at this point that thought is a chastisement, an admonition. He can't let Draco live.  
"You're wet." Malfoy says. His unsteady hand reaches up to touch Ron's face and Ron intercepts it, wrenching it away. "You don't touch me." After a moment's hesitation, he kisses Draco. But it seems blasphemous to call it that. But there is no other name for explorative tongue, and aggressive teeth, for sucking and biting mouths. He can taste rain, and smoke on Draco's lips. He breaks away, both of them panting. Draco's legs are still spread, and he's ready to take advantage.  
Ron slides one spit-lubed finger between Draco's cheeks, tracing his cleft. Circles the small pucker, pressing slightly in and Draco shudders. "Oh God." Pushes in to the second knuckle and Draco moans. And fucking Christ, he's still so fucking tight. Ron wonders if this is hurting him but can't bring himself to ask. His blood is pumping too fast. There's a roaring sound in his ears. Malfoy's stopped struggling.  
The thought of shoving his cock deep into this tightness is enough almost to make him lose his sanity right here, right now. Oh God. Shrugs back his own tense shoulders, slides two fingers the rest of the way in and hears Draco curse.  
"Fuck."  
Draco's whimpering, spreading his legs wider, inviting Ron to push his fingers deeper, push inside harder. And Ron does, finding that spot, rubbing it till Draco finds god, and then makes himself stop. If he could touch this part of Draco, he should be able to touch him completely, see if the bastard has a heart, see if he has the right to make Ron feel guilty.  
Ron pauses before slicking his cock with saliva with one hand, wipes that hand on Harry's pristine bed sheets, and runs his arm under Draco's stomach, pulling him up onto all fours, still holding Draco's wrists tightly with the other. He can feel Draco shudder as his cock presses against his stretched opening. He pushes in slowly, all the way.  
Ron breathes, and his palms catch Draco's hips in his hands, lifting him and positioning him. Draco sobs at the first vicious thrust, friction scraping him raw as Ron bucked beneath him, forcing his cock deep, opening all vulnerabilities.  
"Say it," He orders coldly. Degradation numbs lots of things.  
Draco moans.  
"Say it." Ron warns.  
"Fuck me," Draco grits out.  
"Again."  
"Fuck me," Draco cries out. "Please, Ron. Fuck me."  
Ron rams home with one deep thrust. Draco cries out. Presses back for more. Ron pulls out almost to the head and slams in again. And then rides him. Fucks him hard. Slamming violently into him and again, flesh smacking against flesh. And he just wants to come. Needs so badly to come. But he has a point to make. Something to conquer. A game to win. He needs to prove to himself that he can hurt Malfoy. He reaches between his legs, strokes the molten heat he finds there.  
Ron can easily read the shame that taints Malfoy's pallid cheeks red at that touch. He presses his free hand up to Draco's white throat. He caresses it in unison with the rocking motion of their fucking, and the unhurried movement of his hand on Draco's erection. Draco moans wordlessly in response.  
Without thinking, he begins to tighten his fingers around the Slytherin's throat. Confusion and fear sharp in Draco's eyes as he tilts his head, and locks eyes with Ron. The Gryffindor merely smiles, his fingers tightening. The alarm in the grey depths begins to dull as Ron increases the pace of his deep thrusts and his strokes on Draco's erection. Faster Ron strokes, all the while gradually restricting the other boy's air passage.  
Draco whimpers, hands pulling at Ron's. He slaps them away. Draco's cock throbs in his palm. With his other hand, he squeezes Draco's neck a little more, making the boy's eyes roll, dilate. He can see the dizziness that spins in those eyes and reluctantly loosens his grip on the pale throat just slightly.  
"Please stop," Draco whispers, panting for the air he is not allowed.  
"Shut the fuck up," Ron bites out, thrusting deeper. Draco shudders beneath him, doesn't know if it's in pain or pleasure. "I'll stop when you come for me, beautiful." He makes his voice sarcastic, insincere; he really wants to kill him.  
Draco moans weakly, his eyes glazing as the suffocating pressure on his windpipe gradually increases. Ron times his strokes and hard thrusts carefully, bringing Draco to the edge of orgasm just as unconsciousness blackens the edges of the inky grey irises.  
"When are the Slytherins leaving to join the war? Huh?" He gives a viciously hard thrust. Harry and Hermione are out there somewhere. Are they cold? Are they hungry? Do they miss him?  
"I don't k-" Draco chokes out, his fingers clutching the white bed sheets.  
Ron feels his heart sickeningly lurch as he watches Draco beneath him, his face buried in the pillow, his hips rocking backwards into Ron's pelvis, impaling himself over and over again. The fair face is flushed red with humiliation and yearning. Tears spill like rain from the corners of his eyes. The pink lips part, small cries of pain and entreaty are mouthed, yet cannot be spoken. At that moment, Ron feels only hatred for himself.  
One more frantic thrust is all it takes; they both nearly reach heaven and hell at the same time, fucking euphoria in towering sensations. He doesn't even know if he moaned the right name. He collapses, and distantly sees Draco curl into a ball beside him, shoulders heaving with lack of oxygen and wracking sobs. So Ron couldn't kill him after all, but he can somehow sense the destruction of something else already beginning.  
"We're leaving tomorrow." He hears the other boy whisper before he drifts off to unconsciousness. Ron thinks this over for a second, while he mentally summons his owl to take the message to Harry's camp. After he does that, he allows himself to gingerly touch Draco's hair, and this is the only time he can do this, as if the simple act can erase the guilt. That he's a coward and he should be fighting Voldemort with his lover and his friends. He stares at Draco for a long time before he finally lets himself drift off to sleep.  
In his dream, they're in the courtyard again, and he reaches up and takes the cigarette away from him, letting his fingers brush against the other's lips lightly. And, as the world revolves slowly under their feet, he puts it between his own lips. They share mutual poison. Tastes like him and he loves it. Ron inhales gently in silent reverence, no shame. The end glows red; the light reflects on his quiet face.  
"I love you," He says, and understands something for the first time. Stunned silence paints their world. In the resonating quiet, in the stills between gusts and pattering rain, he can hear Draco's breathing catch. Can hear his own heart beating, or is it breaking, at last.  
And Ron moves forward, closes the distance between them. Two heartbeats, his hands slipping around Draco's waist, familiar and strange and new all at once, and he's drowning in grey eyes.  
Then he wakes up cold. Draco is so cold beside him. How is that possible? He's so cold in his warm arms. It takes him a minute to realize it.  
His wrists are caked with dried blood. Ron gasps, cradles the small body to his chest. "No." He says this over and over until the word loses all guilty meaning.


End file.
